


No Reason

by GuardianQwerty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Caring John, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Emotions, Faint, Fainting, Good John, Hurt Sherlock, Injury, John POV, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, Passes out, Platonic Relationships, Scars, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, built up emotion, collapse, harrasment, life - Freeform, lost sherlock, scared, sherlock POV, sherlock collapses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:27:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15637911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianQwerty/pseuds/GuardianQwerty
Summary: Sherlock has returned from a case, but something is very very wrong.





	1. Chapter 1 - Sherlock POV

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi POV piece planned with 4 small chapters.

He stood shaking, unknown to the fear, sadness and emotion that coursed through his body. He didn’t understand it. What was this? Why did everything feel bad? Why was he suddenly more disconnected from life than usual? Why had this happened? He couldn’t process it. His mind a shamble. So he stood in the doorway to his flat, their flat and shook, feeling lightheaded and dizzy to his surroundings, everything was a blur. But none of it made sense. Why did he feel so lost? Why had his brain gone numb and how does he fix it? 

He can feel wetness fill his eyes, a steady stream beginning to pour from them for no reason. What was happening? His cheeks felt warm, but his body was cold like ice. He felt shaky, yet stiff as a stone; cold but his head was burning and dirty but the cleanest ever. He was overrun by feelings, yet his mind had stopped. He was no longer the detective that could deduce everything from a single sneeze, no longer the cold reptile like being who could detach himself from life, no longer the unemotional man who didn’t care. He was an empty shell, but there was no reason for it. 

His face felt heavy from tears but had a body light enough to float away. Everything was disproportionate, and he couldn’t place why. He felt his body began to sway, sway to the vertigo that had started to become second nature to his form. There was only one word, one thought that could be pulled from the disarray of his current life.  
“John.” He breathed before collapsing forward into the floor boards beneath, feeling the collision with the ground before he let himself be taken by the dark edges that had been vignetting his vision.


	2. Chapter 2 - John POV

John had had an uneventful day. Eight hours at the practice dealing with a combination of the sniffles, a broken arm and a few bouts of gastro. He had picked up milk, bread and tea bags on his way home from Tesco, because to be honest that’s all that Sherlock ate. He had just settled into his chair with a hot cup of tea when the flat door opened. 

“Good case?” John asked not even turning around. Sherlock had spoke this morning of a ‘9’ before bounding out the flat at half-six. He had been full of life and ready to catch a killer. A good half a minute passed and there was no response. John turned his head, taking in the site of Sherlock. He looked weird, he was as pale as always, dressed the same way he left this morning. Everything looked right, except it didn’t. His hands were fidgeting, which happens only when he is frustrated with a challengeor the lack of a case. But he looked calm, well not calm, but almost scary relaxed. The only major issue that he could tell was the fact he wasn’t talking. 

“Sherlock?” John questioned, starting to worry a little. It was like he had misplaced his voice box. Still no response came, but now that John was focusing, he realised how much the detective was shaking. And not the type from being outside in the winters breeze, but the intense -freezing borderline hypothermia- shaking. But he was also sweating copious amounts. 

“Hey, Sherlock? You okay?” John questioned hoping this was a cruel prank, and not something serious. But the shaking and sweat continued, along with the fidgeting which had developed into complicated finger movements almost like he was plucking the strings on a violin. John stood up and at this point was looking to Sherlock's face. They were glistening, pools of water had started to form and stream from his blue eyes. John didn’t know what to do. 

“Sherlock snap out of it. What's going on?” John went to walk forward but stopped, he could see the body in front of him start to sway. He knew what was coming next, but didn’t have time to act, when one word caught him off guard. 

“John.” The word was choked by the emotion it emitted, it was full of confusion, desperation and an elegance that Sherlock often led with. But it was a word uttered under the intense pressure of fear, the need for help. Distracted by this John stood and watched as his best friend face planted into the floor. He heard bones crack and saw blood start to seep. He was out cold.


	3. Chapter 3 - Sherlock POV

His head was banging, he could feel a pool of liquid drenching his face and black curls. He was on his side and could feel sickness deep in his stomach begin to rise. His body was still shaking, was he sick? His nose was pained, and his forehead felt like a bowling ball. What had happened? Excessive questioning without being able to deduce was a worrying sign of his own bodies failings. Had his transport just given up? Usually he could tell before it was close to throwing in the towel. But this felt different, very different. 

Sherlock attempted to roll onto his stomach, so he could push himself off the ground. But warm calloused hands pushed him back on his side. Warm hands had reminded him how cold he was, yet his face was still flushed with a heat like the Sahara Desert. Sherlock attempted to open his eyes, there was red liquid pooling in the dip near where his left tear duct met his nose. The redness distorted the image, but he could see a doctor, his doctor staring down. He looked worried, or angry and he was talking, but there was so sound. It was like someone had rearranged the wires and chosen to plug the video cable in only. Barely an image, with no sound. He wanted to hear the words that his friend was muttering, but he couldn’t hear anything. He was scared, scared and fearful and angry and emotional. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock” Mycroft echoed in his mind, this wasn’t caring was it? His body was shutting down and all he could think about was Mycroft. 

Many minutes passed, and he could start to feel the hands back on him, the warm hands that were soothing, applying pressure to his head, clearing the blood from his vision and patting him down for any other injuries. The doctor above him worked methodically, checking over his patient head-to-toe examination style. Sherlock was still not getting any voice. But he was starting to remember the day. 

Lestrade had called with a 9, but it was more of a 6 when he got there. He solved the case in just under 30 minutes before leaving. He had heard muffled remarks of ‘freak’ and ‘psychopath’ as he left the scene. But instead of going home, he walked. Walked for what felt like forever. He left the crime scene 8:20am and didn’t return home until 6pm. He spent nearly 10 hours walking the streets of London. It took him 5 hours to walk home from the crime scene. But he had spent an extra 5 hours walking the streets, talking to his homeless network, trying to deduce his surroundings. Something must have happened at the crime scene, because his mind was a wreck. He couldn’t concentrate. He remembered distinctly nearly getting hit 6 times by various moving vehicles. It was like coming down from a drug fuelled rampage, yet he hadn’t touched drugs since, well a long time. 

So, he laid on his side, staring into the eyes of John, as his mind collapsed around him.  
“Sherlock can you hear me?” It was almost like a whisper. But he could tell it had been loud, as the lip movements of his friend were very pronounced. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He tried to nod, but his body was unresponsive. He couldn’t do anything, so he looked into his friends’ eyes and blinked, blinked the newly formed tears as they mixed with drying blood and leaked down his face.  
“Come on Sherlock, up you get.” John spoke again, the voice increasing only slightly in volume. It was torturous, like someone slowly connecting the sound cable and he was only getting distortions of it. Arms were linked under his body, and he was slowly dragged down the hallway to his bed. A combination of strength and very careful movement slowly got Sherlock onto his bed. A pillow under his head, and a duvet surrounding his body, the shaking was starting to decrease. There was no reason for this. No reason at all, yet it was happening. John continued to clean and talk, some things entering his brain others cutting out. The very lopsided conversation had been mostly about injuries. Asking him how he was feeling. What he gathered was he had broken his nose on impact, had a possible concussion and somehow had split his head. It was small but deep which is why there was a lot of blood. 

It felt like an eternity, before suddenly things began to return to normal. Sherlock looked up, finding his voice and now understanding exactly what had happened, yet still not knowing why. The physicality’s of the situation has sunk in and he knew there was nothing physically wrong. Nothing to suggest sickness or injury apart from the obvious implications of the fall.  
“There is nothing wrong, but there is.” Sherlock spoke for the first time since muttering ‘John’. John looked up from the remainder of the sutures he had used to stitch up his head. He looked relieved, but also concerned or angry. Sherlock still couldn’t tell the difference between the two emotions.  
“Sherlock, your back.” John breath deeply, “tell me what the issue is, what’s going on?” John was always attentive to his needs, always feeding him, forcing him to drink and sleep and keeping him well. But he had no answer. He didn’t know why this happened, he couldn’t piece together the information, maybe John could?  
“I don’t know. I feel…” Sherlock didn’t like sharing, never did, but he needed help. He didn’t know how to fix this.  
“I feel lost, my mind is a shamble. I can’t differentiate between emotions, yet I feel all of them. I can’t figure out what I want, but I know what I want. I ca-can’t… John… I can’t.” Sherlock looked into his friends’ eyes. Hoping he could slot the jigsaw together that he couldn’t.  
“There is so many emotions, I feel run down, but nothing happened today. Everything just stopped and won’t start. I don’t even know why I’m CRYING!” Sherlock’s voice had quickly turned from shaky and jittery and scared, to scared and angry. He didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t place any of it. His raw emotions were ripping at the seems and he had no placement for it. A hand was in his hair, John’s can caressing and calming. His eyes were solemn, wondering, asking for him to speak. Sherlock wanted to give answers, but he didn’t know what to do.  
“They called you a freak again, didn’t they?” John said, seeking answers with his face. And it all clicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this might actually be a bit longer than I thought., I'm really enjoying writing this.


	4. Chapter 4 - John POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in the final chapter, I'm a full time uni student and I'm supposed to be writing 1500 words on the pathophysiology of a motorcycle accident not 1500 words on Sherlock and John's friendship. Oh well. This chapter is basically the size of the last 3 chapters, but a good amount fun to write.

It still took John a moment to notice the consequences of letting his friend fall to the ground so quickly. Completely taken aback by the word his friend had muttered he watched his friend lie on the ground, still and knocked out. If Mrs Hudson hadn’t come into the room, he probably would have continued to stare long after.   
“What is all that banging? Has Sherlo-” her voice cut out looking between the body slumped on the floor and John’s face, clearly processing what she was looking at.  
“What did you do to him????” Her voice had gone high pitched, annoyed and angry, she sounded very angry. John was still slightly taken aback about what had happened that he nearly didn’t answer.   
“I-I-I didn’t do anything.” John completed and by finally speaking he was kicked into gear.   
“Mrs Hudson can you go and get my medical kit? It’s upstairs under my bed. Also grab a pillow and towel if you can?” He looked up from Sherlock as he finished his sentence and noticed she had already started to whizz upstairs.

John approached Sherlock carefully, noting the pooling blood leaving his head and nose. His jacket had cascaded around his body and his feet were angling outwards, with his left knee slightly inclined. It did not look comfortable and John knew the first thing he should do is to check for response. So, he carefully crouched down next to his friend, checking for any sign that his friend would return to consciousness. John’s hands moved over Sherlock as he spoke.   
“Sherlock? Can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me.” There was no response which wasn’t good but very much expected considering the height of the fall and the fact that he didn’t stop himself as he collided with the ground. John ran his hands over his friend, carefully rolling him over onto his side, taking in the very noticeable head laceration on the right temple, that had started to pool down the centre of his face and not only leak into the closed eyes but combine with the heavy blood receding out of his nose. John felt a little guilty for what happened but pushed it sharply out of his mind as he attempted to take care of his patient. He gave Sherlock’s collar bone a hard squeeze gaging for response to pain, but Sherlock continued to loll into the ground oblivious to the world as it spun around him.

A few minutes after his request, Mrs Hudson returned with a bulking medic bag with army camouflage, technically the same one he had on tour, but topped up with his own supplies and laid out in a fashion that was easily recognisable for him in emergencies.   
“John? What happened?” Mrs Hudson’s voice had calmed down from angry to worried as she handed him the towel and pillow he had requested.   
“I’m not quite sure, it’s like he passed out, but it didn’t look like one. I just know he hit the deck hard and this is the aftermath.” John said to the landlady, still primarily focused on Sherlock rather than his conversation.  
“Should I call an ambulance?”   
“No, I don’t think that it would be wise given the situation.” John really had no idea what had happened, but he had a niggling sensation that told him that this was nothing to do with blood glucose levels, heart, oxygen or any other medical variants.   
“If you insist, then I’ll make tea just in case. Give me a shout if you need anything.” The landlady left the room, with a small smile, watching Sherlock’s body as she reversed out the door.   
“What have you done Sherlock?” John muttered more to himself than the detective.

John spent a solid five minutes, assessing Sherlock’s body for injuries as well as all the usual basic vital signs, even though he had a decent idea that this had nothing to do with a medical condition. After all his vitals came back within normal ranges he went over a head-to-toe and sent a text to Lestrade to ask anything about the case that may have impacted Sherlock’s condition. At this point, he could start to feel the detective resisting his hands, at one-point Sherlock had tried to roll on to his stomach so he could get up. John carefully pushed Sherlock back onto the ground preserving the recovery position so any draining blood that was still slowly leaking from his nose and head avoided making him choke. A disorientated Sherlock was one think, a choking and panicking one was an entirely different handbook. Sherlock’s eyes were starting to open, John was still padding done the blood that was pooling in his eyes. He could imagine that he wouldn’t be able to see much through the red haze.   
“Hey.” John said, smiling down at his friend.   
“Nice to have you back, are you alright?” John continued, waiting eagerly for a response, but none came. He saw blue eyes bore into his brain, there was a feeling that the detective was ignoring him, but also one that he just was scared.   
“Sherlock, can you hear me?” Still no response came, but his eyes were dilating. He could see the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest increase along with the heart rate.   
“Sherlock, come on mate, calm down. Your safe.” Sherlock had gone stiff still noticeably fearful, his sympathetic system working on overdrive. Sherlock’s eyes were blinking rapidly.   
“Sherlock, can you hear me?” And within a second, he could see the change. Sherlock’s eyes began to relax, his heart rate slowing along with his respiratory rate. And even though he didn’t answer he blinked, and John watched as his friend blinked excitingly like it was the first time he had ever heard a voice before. John pretended not to notice the dampening of the detective’s eyes as they mixed with the now dried blood.  

John decided at that moment that it was time to move his friend. Speaking softly to him, explaining what he was doing in the fewest amount of words, he picked Sherlock up from under the arms and slowly dragged him to Sherlock’s bedroom. Now he was awake, comfort was a primary concern, so it only made sense to put him to bed. After laying him into the bed, he wrapped the duvet around him, as there was still an epic amount of shaking sheeting Sherlock’s body. The warmth however had clearly already started to help as the shakes had decreased rapidly within minutes. John started to speak softly at the detective asking questions, but mostly explaining the extent of his injuries. He also managed to clean up and suture the head laceration with neatly lined sutures that would leave next to no scar.

John’s mind was wondering as he tended to his friend. Wondering how this happened and why. And at that moment he received a text from Greg. A text that pieced together everything for him. It wasn’t often that John picked up and was able to deduce something, but Sherlock’s wellbeing was one of his specialities and it all made sense.   


_Nothing happened, Sherlock came and solved the case and left. The only thing that happened was Donovan and Anderson ganged up on him calling him the usual names. GL_

“There is nothing wrong, but there is.” Sherlock’s voice cut cleanly through John’s thought’s. John was startled by the strangled quiet voice that was his friend. The baritone grumble that was usually present was nowhere to be found and the shakiness, though no longer noticeable in his body was evident in his voice.   
“Sherlock, your back…tell me what’s the issue is, what’s going on?” John spoke softly, very glad his friend was talking again. Even though he doesn’t talk for days sometimes, it was slightly scary watching Sherlock as a mute. Especially when John was trying to care for him, usually if John is trying to help it is complaint central. Sherlock’s face looked puzzled, almost like he was working on a tough case.   
“I don’t know. I feel…” Sherlock started, John could see him struggle for words.   
“I feel lost, my mind is a shamble. I can’t differentiate between emotions, yet I feel all of them. I can’t figure out what I want, but I know what I want. I ca-can’t… John… I can’t.” John for once felt he had a good idea of what was happening, why his friend had shut down. He had only seen it once before, but a lot milder. John could tell Sherlock was trying to use the right words but couldn’t grasp his usual on distinct grasp of dialogue.   
“There is so many emotions, I feel run down, but nothing happened today. Everything just stopped and won’t start. I don’t even know why I’m CRYING!” Sherlock was shouting suddenly, his face looking like after he was exposed to the HOUND hallucinogenic. Frightened, scared, angry at himself. John hated watching his friend fall apart it was never fun. He knew exactly why it had happened, how his friend had managed to turn into a ball of emotions, when he usually showed none. It annoyed him that Donovan and Anderson could have this affect, it was bullying in its most primitive form, just because he worked differently. It didn’t mean that it was alright to call him names. Yes, Sherlock could be an ass, but everything he deduced was always fact, not necessarily nice, but he never called people names. He never descended to the level of school yard harassment. John knew that even though Sherlock showed strength in the face of pain, even though he ignored the names; you could only get called “freak”, “psycho” or a “machine” so many times before someone breaks. Because that’s what this was. John threaded his hand through Sherlock’s hair, careful to avoid the new sutures but giving him enough contact to be able to pull Sherlock’s head towards his chest and hold him close. Sherlock was like a child and sometimes he just needed help. This was John’s time to deduce and help Sherlock, it was John’s time to fix the puzzle, seal the cracks and pull the detective out of the dark and into knowledge.  
“They called you a freak again, didn’t they?” John spoke softly. And almost immediately a choked cry and sob could be heard from the detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this piece. Sorry for the delay again, please leave kudos if you enjoyed it and comments on improvements or anything you wish. I may write an epilogue but I'm really happy with how it's finished.

**Author's Note:**

> I think there is a beautiful elegance in the idea that we as humans can be having brilliant days, and then the very next everything can fall apart for no reason at all. And majority of times even if you are the worlds only consulting detective we have no idea how to fix it. 
> 
> Kudos and Comments are appreciated. Any help is accepted to!


End file.
